Time After Time
by PitFTW
Summary: When a person is born, they are given a watch that will count down the time until they meet their soul mate. But what happens when fate plays its cruel hand? The story of a love that transcends time.


**Time After Time**

**A/N: The Soul Mate Clock idea with a bit of a twist. I'm a very, very cruel person.**

**Summary: When a person is born, they are given a watch that will count down the time until they meet their soul mate. But what happens when fate plays its cruel hand? The story of a love that transcends time. **

**Pairings: USUK**

**Warnings: Character death, angst**

* * *

It all began with a watch.

When a person is born, before their first cry ended, they would always receive a watch. The nurse would place the tiny wristwatch on their hand, and from the moment the watch touches the babe's skin, it begins ticking. Now, to be fair, many people have watches, and all watches tick, but this watch was not some mere timepiece; it was destiny unto itself.

This watch that all men and women received at birth was the watch that foretold their destiny. Each watch told a different time, counting down the years, days, hours, minutes, and seconds until the person in question would see their soul mate for the first time. There was no science or magic involved; no one wanted to attempt to think of it. It was just one of those natural, almost biological things that everyone had simply accepted. Sure, there were those that spent their days studying these watches, staring at their as they ticked down, down, down, but for the common folk, these watches were simply there, and to question their workings would only bring headache.

A soul mate was a partner, with whom a person would spend the rest of his or her life. It was a truly beautiful moment whenever soul mates met, because that meant that destiny had brought them together. The matches were perfect, as soul mates were meant to be, and always ended in happiness. Fate brought them together, and fate would guide them for the rest of their lives.

But Fate is a cruel mistress; she does not allow things to always be that easy.

* * *

His name is Ahmose, and he is the brother of the pharaoh. He stands at the right hand of his brother as he watches the people below him. Maidens bow to his brother and offer him sweets; warriors yell and beat their breasts. There is a great event to happen this day: a rider from the north is arriving to show his gifts to the pharaoh. Never before have these people seen one from the north who is not their enemy; much excitement has been built up for this day.

He turns to his brother, who raises a hand. Golden sun shines harshly upon bronzed skin. He bows to the pharaoh and walks to the center of the pavilion and bows low, first to the pharaoh, then to the audience, and finally, to the rider's handler. The rider himself is yet to appear, but Ahmose pays that no mind. His job is merely to announce to the pharaoh the arrival of the rider, nothing else.

And he does so; his voice strong is strong and carries far, unlike the weak voice of his brother. He beseeches the gods to watch over his people, and blesses the path of the rider, so that he may please his brother as best as he could. As he finishes, he briefly glances to the side, where upon a low table of ebony, sits a tiny sundial, wrought from purest gold.

When he and his brother were born, they were both given small sundials, blessed by Ra himself. These sundials were meant to one day guide the brothers to their destined wives; when the shadow of the sundial reached the top, then they would have seen their destined wives. His brother, as pharaoh, had many wives, but he was yet to find the one who would bear him the son that would rule over his kingdom. As for Ahmose, though he cannot see the shadow of his sundial now, he knows that his future wife is near.

Then, the pounding of hooves fills the air. A horse whinnies and rears back its head. Out from the shifting sands comes a slim figure astride a mighty black stallion. Ahmose leaps out of the way of the powerful hooves, eyes and throat burning from the shifting sands that fill them. He whirls on the rider, still in his sitting position, and immediately is engulfed by green.

It is said that where the Nile River ends is where the earth meets the sky, and where the gods themselves dance and play. He who reaches this world is said to be the one to take his place amongst the gods. Only pharaohs, gods themselves, are allowed to visit this sacred place.

And yet sitting here, upon the shifting sand, Ahmose thinks for a moment that he has been allowed a blessed place amongst the gods.

Green pools widen and, for a moment, glance at something tied to the stallion's back. For a moment, all time stills, and Ahmose climbs to his feet, unable to tear his eyes away from the green. The rider blinks twice, purses his pale lips, and looses his hold on the reins so that he may leap down, and-

The stallion rears. People roar. Ahmose screams. The beast is a wild horse, made wilder by the shift of the sands. The rider stands no chance as he falls. Ahmose charges, ignoring the calls of his brother and his wives, focused only on finding and saving the rider. He is a warrior; he knows how to tame a beast.

And yet somewhere, amongst the pounding of hooves, his rider is lost amongst the ever-changing sands, sands, sands.

* * *

He is King Alfred, sometimes called the Great, and he cannot sleep. He stands straight up, dressed in his robes, staring at the candle before him. It is a sacred piece, rumored to be created by the hands of Merlin himself. It is gifted only to the king.

The candle acts like many other candles: a timepiece meant to tell the king what time in the day it is. But this particular one serves a different function: it tells the time until Alfred the Great meets the one he is destined to love forever. Once the candle burnt out completely, then Alfred had met his destined one. His soul mate, as some of the younger girls called it. It was gifted to him at birth, and he has carried it with him ever since.

The candle is but a stub of a stub now, meaning that it is almost time for him to meet his destined one. He wonders who it is; perhaps a woman calling in the night? An assassin who attempts to slay him but is proven to be unable to? Perhaps a new warrior who has lost his way.

Perhaps he should read as he waits. Or look at some pictures that one of his warriors had drawn. He decides that he should pull them out, as they were gifts, and a king always appreciates his gifts. He walks over to a nearby table, whereupon sits a small pile of vellum. A soldier had gifted these to him as they marched to battle, but the king was yet to look at them.

The first picture unveiled is a simple sketch of a landscape, yet it holds beauty unlike any other. He can feel the dips and curves of the hills, taste the gentle river that runs through the scene. It is a truly beautiful piece, though it is made from little more than bits of ash and grass. He places the picture aside and picks up another, continuing to listen for the sound of footsteps outside his door.

The second picture is one of him, captured almost perfectly with his likeliness. He can see clearly the curve of his jaw and the scar upon his cheek, the wind in his hair and the determination in his eye. He considers for a moment having this buried with him, or preserved and hung up in the halls. It will be a piece that would last forever, one that will surely immortalize him.

He turns now to the third page, and immediately, all thoughts of the two others are forgotten. Now he gazes down at the image of a man, one with a strong jaw and stern mouth. Messy hair flies wildly in the drawn wind, caught only beneath the circlet sitting atop his head. His eyebrows are thick, surely a mistake on account of the artist, but to King Alfred the Great, they only add to the picture's beauty. Beneath the picture, the artist has written a caption: King Arthur Pendragon, Wielder of Excalibur, and a God among Men.

Behind King Alfred, with no candle to hold it, the flame flickers and dies.

* * *

Her name is Amelia, and her dress is tight. There are too many ribbons in her hair. The corset digs incessantly into her chest, but she knows that she must live with it. For tonight, she will be presented to the king. But how can she look her best, when she must first board a ship to be taken to the land across the sea? It is said that the people there know love better than all else; she will surely find a suitable match there.

With her she takes few things: some clothes, some face paints, and, of course, her prized possession. It is an hourglass she has held close since her childhood, when her sister and she would play amongst the reeds. It is a blessed item, her grandmother claims, because once the sand runs out from the top, she will meet her destined husband. The sand of the hourglass has yet to run out; perhaps King Francis truly is her destined one.

The ship sets sail without a delay. She stumbles about deck, her stomach churning and twirling. She does not dance as she always does, for she knows that if she does, she may be cast into the sea. It is bad luck to have a woman upon a ship, but perhaps it is even worse luck for a ship to come in contact with a woman. The woman must suffer through the rolling waves and the whipping winds, all while enduring the scorching heat of the sun.

She holds on to the ship's railing and breathes in the sea air, filled with salt and sun. She dislikes the rolling of the sea, but loves its beauty; nowhere else will the sky be so blue, and the sea so green. She wishes that she can simply leap in and allow it to swallow her whole, falling deeper, and deeper, and deeper until she can no longer climb up. And there she would sleep, at the bottom of the sea, never to be bothered by tight dresses and too many ribbons again.

For a time, it is peaceful, but of course, peace does not last.

They board in the night, when the guard is beginning to doze and when the moon is high and bright. Their ship is small, but fast, silent as she gently parts the ever-shifting waves. It is not until boots hit the deck that anyone is woken up, and by then, it is too late; they have boarded the ship and they intend to take all that they can.

She is dragged by her hair out of her bed, and brought to the deck, where already the rest of the passengers are assembled. She stands with a sobbing woman and her child, who holds onto her hand and whispers sweet words to his mother. All around, the pirates walk and they grab and they spit, hoping to find someone who can be of use to them: a new member of their crew, or the daughter of a rich lord.

She grasps the hourglass in her hand. A pirate attempts to grab her. She struggles and screams, kicking and biting like a woman possessed, knowing that she cannot lose it, no matter what the cost. She must meet her love; the sand in the hourglass is almost run out.

It is not long before the man becomes frustrated. He grins roughly, teeth yellowed and rotting, as he draws his knife and attacks. She manages to step to the side, where it only cleaves a small bit of her skirt, just as a sharp, commanding voice rings out. She briefly turns her head in the direction of the voice, all the while sidestepping and jumping aside to avoid the powerful blows of the dagger.

He is tall and imposing, with a scowl rivaled only by the frown of storming seas. He stomps up to her and the man, dark boots pounding on deck. Around his shoulders, he wears a coat of red; an elaborate hat of fluffy white feathers and black leather sits atop his head. His eyes are green and fierce; these were the eyes that belonged to a hardened man, a man who knew what it meant to face off against death, decay, and hate.

He is entrancing, mesmerizing, almost hypnotic. His very voice is enough to rival that of the dreaded sirens. He shouts an order at the man attacking her, but the man does not listen. And it is not long until her shoes fail her, until she finds a loose board or something of the like on the deck, and she stumbles, green flashing before her eyes.

She feels only the bite of silver at her neck and the warm spurt of her blood as her world is painted red. The green of her vision disappears, and she is left with nothing else but the wind and the sea. She falls, seeing her precious hourglass shatter on the deck, the last grain of sand falling, falling, falling…

* * *

His name is Al, and he is a private in the Continental Army. The battle has just begun, and the war is far from over. He fights for freedom, for liberty, for representation, and of course, for the end of tyranny. He fights to break free from King George III and to embrace the freedoms that he has had from the day he was born.

He smiles down at his pocket watch and tucks it in his uniform, patting it for courage and luck. The wristwatch tells when he will meet his bonny girl to take home to his ma, and if the ten minutes is anything to say about it, the battle will surely be fast. It is destiny, after all; the British Empire will fall and the United States of America will rise.

He grips his musket as he charges, blue coat billowing around him. It is a rainy day, and the ground is caked with mud. It splashes onto his boots as he runs, his pack pounding against his back. Cold water splatters up against his face, but he does not falter; falter would bring death, and death is the last thing that Al wishes to experience before he can meet that bonny little maiden he will take home to his ma.

He sees something ahead: a flash of red and green. He lifts his musket and fires, right as the other man fires as well. His chest rips open, red spurting like wildfire. He lets out a silent cry as he falls to his knees, his blue uniform slowly going red. Before him, the man he has shot also falls, green eyes idle and cloudy.

He sees upon whispered lips promises never fulfilled and dreams now deterred. He can hear the cries of the mother and the sobs of the father, the mourning of the brothers and the anguish of the sisters. This man is an enemy, and yet he is still a man; he holds a dream within his hand that he will never see. Al had shot him in his belly; there is no use for soldiers with belly wounds.

Among the red and brown and blue, he reaches out, trying his best to touch the green. And the green reaches for the blue, red-soaked arm pale and trembling. He smiles and the green smiles back, and for the first time, all the noise and tumult around them fade. For now, it is just them, simply them, out in an open field, beneath a smiling yellow sun.

Al notices the absence of ticking as he closes his eyes.

* * *

His name is Alfred F. Jones, the F standing for Freedom. He is a strong believer in dignity, courage, and heroism. He loves a good laugh and a relaxing Saturday night, complete with a million video games and a million more hamburgers. He stands in the center of the campus, holding a bouquet close to his heart.

His wristwatch tells him the time: seven minutes, eight seconds. Seven minutes and eight seconds until he meets his soul mate. He was given this watch at birth, and has worn it ever since, sometimes changing the band and clasp so that they would not grow too small for him. It says that he will meet his soul mate on the Fourth of July, at exactly 4 PM sharp.

But where is he?

Five minutes to go, and Alfred is worried. There is no one else in the quad. There is a girl running by, a boy sitting beneath a tree, and Alfred himself, simply standing and waiting. There are no classes in session.

Perhaps this is a mistake. But the watches have never been wrong. At least, not according to all of those whom Alfred has spoken to. Then again, most of those he has spoken to have already found their loved one; he is destined to wait until he is 21 years old.

One minute to go and he is sweating now, quickly looking down at his watch, then back up. There is no one here that he would ever peg to be his soul mate. There are pretty girls and handsome boys, but no matter where he looks, he does not feel the spark he should be feeling. There are only those that are on campus simply for the sake of it, walking hand in hand with their loved ones or laughing with their friends.

Is there a mistake? That can be the only explanation. Alfred turns around, shoulders slumping, bouquet falling to face the ground. If this is a mistake, then he must go back to his bike; there are better ways to waste a good Friday afternoon than to wait around for a soul mate that will never come.

He does not look where he is going; he only takes off running, head down, tears trailing down his cheeks. He has waited, and waited, and waited, to what end? There is no one waiting for him. Surely, whoever his soul mate may be, would hate it if they ever find out that he had waited so long for them. Perhaps it was high time that he goes home and starts working on that project he has put off for the past-

"Oi! Watch where you're going!"

Alfred looks down at the man he has run into and bites his lip sheepishly. Like him, the man wears a watch upon his wrist, and as he stands up and dusts himself off, Alfred is immediately struck with images of Union Jacks and dusty riding boots. Piercings adorn his right ear. Surely, this man does not belong here; he must be a hooligan, looking to cause trouble on the university campus, because he is jealous of-

They are the greenest eyes Alfred has ever seen. They are eyes that speak of a million new ideas, while also telling a million old tales. He can see shifting sands and grass green fields. He smells the scent of the sea and tastes the blood of the land. These are the eyes that promise gentle comfort and swashbuckling adventure, eyes that dance and sing and fight and dream. These are the eyes that he will surely find himself looking into forevermore, and it is not until now that Alfred F. Jones looks down at its watch and its perfectly still hands.

He looks back at the man and his breath stills, blue eyes roaming the supple form and the thin but attractive face. He finds himself yearning to run his hands through the mop of messy blonde hair and wishing that he can pull this man close and hold him until the end of days. Even now, he can practically feel the man's taste: tea and roses and books and wisdom, all mixed together beneath the sweet breath of mint.

He smiles and time begins again. Sun reflects off of golden locks, perhaps once bleached by cloudy days, or emphasized by tanned skin. Blue eyes that once saw the sea and the sky and the mixing of red and blue crinkle in delight. He is smiling, yes, because he has found the one man in the entire world that can ever possibly be his perfect match. And if he were not, then Alfred would refuse to have anyone else; wristwatch or no, this man is the one Alfred F. Jones chooses to spend the rest of his life with.

"Alfred F. Jones," he breathes, holding out his hand. The man frowns and blinks twice, as if waking up from a dream. Then, he glances at his own wristwatch and smiles. He takes Alfred's hand, grasping it close, and bringing it up to his lips for a kiss.

"Arthur Kirkland."


End file.
